


a place with no name

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom/sub, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bull gives himself into Dorian's care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a place with no name

**Author's Note:**

> prompt ficlet for kay: accidental confessions.

It's early, a summer afternoon, the sunlight blindingly bright where it falls in stripes through the windows. Here, half lit and half shadowed, is a broad bed, the heavy frame creaking.

Here is the Bull, abandoning himself:

He breathes hard, hard, hard. It rasps dry in his throat. Palms flat on the bed, wrists bound and spread, a length of dark metal and loops of rope. Arms trembling.

His feet, too, are bound. Pillows make extra padding for his knees.

How long has he knelt on all fours like this? A long time. Not as long as he wants. He wants that place where time stops meaning anything, where nothing else exists.

It's close, close, almost like balancing on the edge of orgasm—not quite there, but the possibility of it tight in his stomach, buzzing at the base of his skull. And oh, yeah, he's balanced there too tonight, sat back on his knees and looked into Dorian's eyes as Dorian's hand stilled on his cock again. As Dorian smiled. No, I don't think so.

It's difficult to let go sometimes. To come, or to submit.

He hasn't submitted for years.

Dorian says, "Count."

The light tap of a wooden paddle against his ass, only a prompt. Dorian's hand drawn smoothly up the outside of his thigh to his hip. Thumb pressing up under him, close to his hole.

He says, "Yes." Bows his head. Eye closed.

He counts. 

Sharp, jolting blows. Three, four, five— 

He pushes back into them, spine arching, involuntary.

Cries out between his teeth, voice stuttering on six, cracking a little on seven.

It'll bruise.

He wants it to bruise.

If it wasn't Dorian, maybe he'd want to bleed a little, at some point. But he's not gonna be the one to ask that. Not knowing what he does.

"Shh," Dorian says, strokes the base of his spine, up and down, up and down. "There you are. Do you need to stop?"

The Bull shakes his head.

"Do it."

"In a moment. There you go."

Hands on his hips again, adjusting his posture. Careful touches to his ass, checking the skin, checking where the burn of future bruises sits deepest.

Dorian bows to his back, kisses it. Presses his hand down harder as he does it to hear the Bull hiss.

"You do this more than you let on," the Bull says. Dorian laughs, breathy. 

"Never with anyone like you," he says against the Bull's skin. And with the intonation of a confession, with the words stumbling over one another as though he hadn't expected them: "Bull—there's never been anyone like you."

It shudders through the Bull, that moment, the words. Another edge they've been balancing on, the edge of something, something—something the Bull confessed in even asking for this, although he hadn't realised it, not until he spoke the words.

He had thought it only meant trust.

He had thought it only meant need—need in an anonymous sense, need for something that would have sent him to a Tamassran once. 

Dorian draws a ragged breath.

Dorian says, "Focus on counting."

He counts.

He counts.

Dorian has him.

Dorian says, "Three more."

Dorian says, "Bull—you're incredible—"

Dorian says, "Oh, look at you—" 

The Bull lets go.

Dorian's hands on him again, spreading him. Dorian kisses the hot skin of his ass. His hands are cool. Later, the Bull will know it for ice magic; now, he only moans at it, how it soothes, the tenderness.

Dorian's thumbs press gently against his hole. Rub slick circles, tease inward.

Withdraw when the Bull presses back against them, searching for that first aching stretch of penetration. Often, he doesn't need it. But it would be contact, more contact, how he wants more of Dorian against him, on him, in him. Dorian becomes the keystone, and without him the arch of the Bull's body will collapse.

He becomes the beating heart of the Bull.

The Bull says, "I need—fuck—I need—"

This too is an unintended confession.

He might want, but he never needs, not a person, not like this.

He says, " _Dorian_."

And Dorian says, "Yes. I'm here. I'm here."

A hand on the Bull's back as he feeds him water in little sips, easing the sharp dryness of his throat.

A kiss, their lips cool and wet, slick.

When Dorian fucks his mouth, he twists one brutal hand around the base of the Bull's horn. But his other is gentle and reverent, tracing the lines of the Bull's face, the lines of his scars, the ruin of his eye. The underside of his jaw.

His lips, where they stretch around Dorian's cock.

When Dorian fucks him, he is unbound. His limbs have been carefully stretched out, his joints eased out of stiffness. But he is held.

Magic curls around him. It makes him heavy here and light there, it lifts his hips from the bed, but presses down hard on his shoulders, on the base of his throat and the top of his chest: nothing to see, and still he feels it. When he swallows, when he breathes. Like a weighted bar laid square across him.

Dorian, beautiful soft-eyed Dorian who calls him a ludicrous beast to let him know he cares, says, "Do you know how handsome you are?"

And the Bull, who knows his worth, the measure of his virtues and his vices, almost sobs at the press of Dorian's cock inside him. Says: "Tell me."

Quiet words. Yes, just there, the line of your nose. When I see you from the side I think I could forget to breathe. That curve of your lips.

The Bull says, "Kadan—" 

When he comes down, Dorian holds him all the way through it. 

There's never been anyone like you.

He's tired, still half-drifting. His mind slurs tired thoughts like wax from a guttering candle. He's quiet, inside his mind. Almost a little hollow. A fragile shell.

But Dorian is there.

"I never," the Bull says, a heavy breath. Dorian's hand on his cheek, Dorian leaning in over him, attentive. "I haven't done it like this since—" Shudders. Dorian touches his lips.

The Bull says, "Never done it like this at all. Not—never been personal."

The Bull says, "Think maybe I'm in love with you. Think maybe that's why—"

The Bull says, "It's alright if you don't love me."

But he is betrayed, a bit, by his voice.

He wants it to be alright. Wants, desperately, never to put pressure on another person. Least of all in this.

But he's still too unsteady from being fucked, being taken apart. Messy lines here, the personal and the sexual, different vulnerabilities blurring their edges into one another.

He can't be perfect.

Dorian doesn't want him to be perfect. So maybe it's alright.

"Don't be ludicrous," Dorian says. Tightens his arms around him. "As though I could not fall in love with you. But tell me tomorrow. You're hardly here right now."

But the Bull has possibly never been more present anywhere in his life.


End file.
